


Today 4 U

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Rent - Larson, The Big C (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - RENT Fusion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, HIV/AIDS, Hannibal Extended Universe, Happy Ending, Intervention, Lapdance, M/M, Past Heroin Abuse, Recovering Addict Nigel, Sex Worker Positivity, Stripper Lee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 19:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Lee knows Nigel, his solemn downstairs neighbor, from their HIV support group. He didn't expect to come home from his shift at the Cat Scratch Club to a distraught Nigel at his door, candle in hand, ready to relapse. There's no way Lee's leaving him alone, not tonight.It's December 25th, two AM, Eastern Standard Time. From here on in, they live without a script.





	Today 4 U

**Author's Note:**

> If you're familiar with the musical RENT and it's subsequent film adaptation, you know what you're walking into. For those of you who _haven't_ seen it, this fic will still make sense, but you'll miss a few of the references. You can absolutely read this without watching or listening to the soundtrack; nevertheless, you should rectify not having seen RENT as soon as possible. It's so, so good.
> 
> I've made a playlist using songs from the musical that are relevant in this fic. [You can listen to it on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/8oeht3k0259dscje63x12eqgm/playlist/51dtvVXKNPhkjYvW4sicx0?si=FG7fFZDeSzyywo8VxWNTrA). 
> 
> This fic contains sensitive subject matter due to the nature of the musical. Both Lee and Nigel have HIV; this will be discussed, as will Nigel's past drug abuse. Because I'm writing outside of my lane, I welcome constructive criticism. <3

Lee’s life is, from the outside, hideously boring, and he loves every minute of it. His schedule hardly shifts from day to day—the time slots, that is. Every morning brings new life with it, something new to do, somewhere new to be. Most people wouldn't see it that way, considering Lee doesn't actually do anything different in the next seven days than he did in the last. But simply  _ breathing _ changes the world around him; Lee can't go to the same day of work twice, or run by an ugly building where the bricks haven't aged infinitesimally. Life stops for nothing and no one until, predictably, it does.

Holidays have never meant much to Lee, not since his parents kicked him out, so keeping his Sunday shift at the Cat Scratch Club wasn't an issue. His pockets are full of cash, because he's damn good at what he does, not to mention that repressed straight men are more depressed at Christmas. It's a good trade-off, Lee thinks, bringing them a little joy while doing something he loves. 

Taking the long way back to his shitty apartment is best, even if Alphabet City is colder than he likes. Lee pulls his long coat around himself more tightly. Probably should have worn warmer clothes to work. Then again, Lee loves to go home mostly unchanged, even during inclement weather. It feels daring, knowing there’s so little separating him from the rest of the outside world. There's so much that separates Lee from the herd as it is.

It isn't as if the heat works in his building, anyway.

_ Fucking landlord. _

He waves at the window washer standing beneath his usual flickering streetlight—Squeegee Man, everyone calls him. “What are you doing out tonight?” Lee asks him, though he doesn't stop walking. Too damn cold for real talk.

“Honest living,” says Squeegee Man, shrugging.

“What, putting icicles on people's windshields?”

“If they wanna pay for the privilege, then fuck yeah!” He grins, half-toothed. “Why are you out, pretty lady?”

Lee laughs, looking back at him over his shoulder. “Girl's gotta eat,” he says, then listens to Squeegee Man's laugh fade into the dark.

It's always like that, too, the people populating the streets when Lee walks late at night. Squeegee Man here; the mostly homeless kid with the roller skates on A; the cross-dresser with the perfect eyeshadow that walks F. During the day, when the sun filters down gray on the dirty cement and piles of broken televisions and rusty double-parked cars, there's only the diurnals to be found, not Lee's favored nightlife. He's seen them when he wakes up long enough to go to group twice a week, or while jogging in Central Park, or when he has an appointment at the clinic. They're mostly unmemorable. Boring, but not in the good way, like Lee is, and he wishes they could find meaning in their lives instead of chasing each other for unattainable cheese.

Well. Lee supposes there’s one person who's better than dust in the daylight. Just thinking about him brings a touch of warmth to Lee’s face.

Nigel.

He’s lived in the apartment beneath Lee for over a year now, since Lee moved in, but they met each other in the support group. Lee knows next to nothing about Nigel—he's stiflingly silent, dignified in his refusal to speak. Nigel is healthy, for now, and caught it from a used needle, like half of the group, and makes his living illegally, like...pretty much all of them, actually.

Other than growling his way through affirmations—not that Lee's complaining about the growling; not in the slightest—Nigel’s only spoken up once beyond his initial introduction.

“Two years clean of that fucking junk,” he'd said, and they'd congratulated him with as much excitement as the group typically mustered, and that was it.

Lee passes Nigel on his way up to his apartment on the third floor sometimes. He’ll tip his head, eyes warm with suspicion, a wounded wolf that missed out on domestication. Nigel moves through the world on the edge of his own knife, the one he carries everywhere, outline conspicuous within the back pocket of faded black jeans. Lee thought that Nigel’s was going to say hello once, but Nigel blinked at Lee, nodded, and went for a cigarette, instead.

The likelihood that there's anyone out there giving a damn about Nigel is slim, so Lee began caring about him immediately.

He knows he's inviting danger, just asking for a cut or a scrape, but Lee still slips off his high-heeled boots half a block before he gets home. There's something grounding about the chill of the pavement beneath his toes. Besides, it makes Lee wash up and take care of his feet after a shift, no matter how tired he is. Lee doesn't make it far tonight before he's digging around in his bag for his beat-up running shoes, though. The cement isn't so much chilled by snowflakes as it is adjacent to iced over.

As always, the door to the building is half-stuck, and Lee has to tug on it a good four times before it pops free of the jamb. It's as cold in the stairwell as it is outside. Lee peels impending eviction notices off of walls as he walks by. Nobody needs to see those; everyone knows it's coming, inevitable as death.

_ Fucking landlord. _

His arriving home routine is boring, too—Lee hates that word, “boring.” So loaded and presumptuous, but it's true, he supposes. There’s a rack next to the door for his shoes, and a spot beside the armchair for his bag, and a cup of instant noodles in the kitchen with his name on it. He doesn't take his makeup off, not yet; Lee loves the way it makes him feel. There’s no reason to waste a carefully crafted face, especially since he splurges on the good stuff, his one vice besides shoes. (Wine, too, sometimes, when the money's more than excellent and the temperature of the building agrees.) 

The long coat is tossed onto the table on his way into what serves as the kitchen. Lee hits the faucet after turning on the water, watching it spit and spurt into his measuring cup before pouring it over the spicy shrimp-flavored noodles and setting it in the microwave.

He sets the time, presses start, and is utterly unsurprised to find out that the power is off. Off-brand Cheerios for dinner, it is. It's the first time he's eaten differently in a few weeks.

Lee sits on the counter as he eats from his favorite bowl, the only one without a chip on the rim. Downstairs, Nigel’s door opens and closes. His beeper goes off, and then, right on schedule, so does Lee’s. It’s always struck Lee as serendipitous, how he and Nigel wound up on the exact same four-hour cycle without knowing, like the AZT affects their internal clocks as much as it does the HIV. Since Nigel is apparently as boring as Lee is, Lee can count on the echo from the second floor to keep him on time, like a snooze button, a failsafe in case he’s too deep in morning meditation, or afternoon reading, or just sleep, in general.

AZT break with an iron supplement and a vitamin C chaser—just in case. Back to dinner. Important ennui.

His legs swing freely, heels drumming against the cabinet door. Maybe he's giving the street too much of a show—the  boatneck of his sweater had slid down over one shoulder when he hopped up on the counter, so Lee had stripped it off. Now it's Lee's fishnet shirt pressed against the frosted glass, and the top of his festive red thong peeping over the waist of his too-loose jeans. It makes him feel alive, though, being seen like this. Who cares if it's exhibitionist of him or not?

The person knocking on Lee's door might mind, but he doubts it.

Wait.

No one ever knocks on Lee's door. They always leave messages on his decrepit answering machine first, and then Lee ignores them, and then they never show up and have to knock.

He crunches his stale cereal thoughtfully before pushing himself off the counter, cereal balanced precariously in one hand, spoon still flipped over in his mouth, and answers the door.

“Nigel?”

And it is, albeit a Nigel in a garish aqua shirt, wrinkled and too thin for the weather. There's a half-smoked cigarette behind his ear, his silver hair greasy and stringing down into his dry, reddened eyes. Nigel’s obviously been crying—either that, or he has one hell of a cold, which is concerning. He has a candle stub clutched in one fist like it's only real if he holds it as tightly as he can. Calling Nigel disheveled right now would be a kindness.

Nigel clears his throat; he can't meet Lee's eyes. “Could you light this for me?”

“Too dark in your place?” asks Lee, pulling the spoon from between his lips, letting his door swing wide open.

“Yeah,” and Nigel shifts on his feet, obviously having adopted Lee's excuse as his own. “Fucking landlord.”

Lee takes a deep breath. Something about this already feels dangerous. “What do you really need a light for?”

Nigel finally looks at Lee, staring so hard now that it's painful to maintain eye contact. “Cigarette.”

“You're lying.”

He slumps against the door jamb; it creaks under his weight. “Just don't press it, okay?” Nigel sighs, then adds, “Just don't fucking ask.”

Lee can't help himself, simply reaches out and pushes Nigel’s hair out of his face, the spoon still held in his first two fingers. Nigel shudders beneath his touch. “Talk to me, honey,” says Lee gently. He almost feels like he's back at work, back in the private rooms. “We already know the hardest part of each other’s lives just from sitting in group for the free donuts.”

“HIV’s fucking nothing next to this.”

A tiny part of Lee’s brain wants to be miffed that his donut line didn’t cheer Nigel up any. He dismisses it as quickly as it came. “Try me.”

Nigel glances at Lee’s body, looks him up and down. He feels bare, but Lee was bared already, and not just physically. Only the universe is keeping track of how much he runs his mouth and shares in group. But Nigel still says nothing. There’s no movement beyond the twitching of his fingers, like he wants to touch,  _ needs _ to touch.

_ How long has it been since anyone did? _

“Come in,” Lee says, dropping his hand from Nigel’s hair to offer it to him, instead. “Keep me company for a bit, and then I'll give you a light, okay?”

“As long as you'll fucking light it at some point so I can go home.” Nigel acts like he’s in a hurry, that he’s got a party waiting for him or—

_ Fuck. _ Lee suddenly puts it together. There's definitely a party Nigel’s dying to get to, but it's only for him. No way is he letting Nigel leave tonight.

Lee closes the door, leaning into it with his shoulder. “Hungry? I have some aged miniature grain circles.”

“Nah,” Nigel mutters. “I'm good, thanks.”

“Well.” This isn't the way he'd hoped to ever lure Nigel into his apartment. “Make yourself at home, as much as possible. And I would apologize for having to change and clean up in front of you,” says Lee, grinning, already pushing his jeans off, “but it's second nature for me at this point.”

He hears Nigel settle onto the couch as he puts his bowl back in the cabinet, still half full. “Not like there’re fucking rooms in these shithole apartments or anything.”

“Right?” Lee starts taking out his earrings as he walks over to sit at his makeshift vanity. The backs of his thighs stick slightly to the painted wood of the kitchen chair where his thigh highs don’t cover. “I did the beaded curtain thing for a while, but it seemed pretty pointless, so I took them down. Except for around the toilet and shower.” He turns to smile at Nigel. “A girl doesn't want to put  _ everything _ on display, you know what I mean? Even if I'm the only one living here.”

Nigel snorts. “Looks like  _ you _ don't live here, either,” he points out. “That corner, maybe.”

“Needed a closet,” explains Lee, not sparing his clothing-tapestried wall more than a sideways glance, his focus on unclipping and peeling his hose down his legs.

“Why? You dress in practically fucking nothing.”

Lee pauses, fingers still in his jewelry box. “Not always. I wear street clothes to group.”

“Grandpa clothes. And I could argue that you're wearing street clothes now.” There's a terrifying hint of possession in Nigel’s voice—not judgment, but  _ jealousy, _ which makes no sense.

“And here I thought you needed something from me.” Lee's used to that, too. One of the harsher facets of a boring life, not being used to purposeless callousness, though it puts the rest of his happiness in sharper focus. True assholes make life more appreciable in their absence, and Nigel is apparently a true asshole.

Lee has put away his bracelets and already moved on to pulling off his false eyelashes when Nigel finally says, “I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely contrite; Lee's been in the laps of enough men to know honesty when he hears it. “Been a bad fucking day. Haunted, bitter, that kind of shit.”

“Past beating against your back? River flowing around you, eroding the rock?”

Lee watches Nigel nod in his periphery. “Exactly like that. You a poet or something?”

“Just your average stripper with an old soul,” Lee says, laughing. “A well-read former whore turned amateur yogi.” He picks up a jar of cold cream. “Mostly former, anyway.”

“I was a pimp,” says Nigel, “among other things, and then I went and fucking fell in love.”

Lee pivots in his seat, crossing his legs at the knee, trying to ignore how cold he is; nudity is as good of a distraction for his guest as anything else. “Let me guess. Aspiring actress. Was going to leave, with or without you.”

“Musician,” Nigel says. “Otherwise, you're fucking psychic.” He starts rolling the candle stub between his palms. “I knew shit would go south—Gabi had too many stars in her eyes and not enough fucking sense—but I couldn't let her go.”

“Love makes idiots of us all.”

“Some more than most.” Nigel’s gaze is palpable, makes Lee shiver as much as the cold. “How are you not fucking freezing?” and isn't that an ironic question, what with Lee incapable of figuring out where the goosebumps on his arms are coming from?

“I mean, I kind of  _ am,” _ admits Lee. “But it isn’t time to curl up in my nest of blankets over there. I dislike breaking my routine. It's...well. Comforting.”

“Am I not a big fucking break to your routine?”

“Maybe? Company is different, though. Besides,” Lee continues, twisting at the waist to look back at the mirror, “I'm still continuing as usual; I just happen to have an audience tonight.”

“Didn't you have one earlier?”

Lee huffs. The envy is slightly ridiculous. “And I enjoyed that one, too.”

Nigel doesn't seem to have a response to that, which is good, because the constant judgment is making Lee uneasy, having to suddenly make excuses for a lifestyle he's not once ever felt a need to excuse. There's never been anyone to explain himself  _ to, _ Lee supposes. Weirdly enough, it’s making him feel lonely, which is almost worse.

“I love dancing,” he tells Nigel, breaking the uncomfortable silence; dismissing the curdling in his stomach; continuing to wipe off his makeup. “It makes me happy, and makes other people happy. I'm good at it—the money's good, too, or at least as good as I need it to be. The only illegality to my career is the occasional handjobs I give out back, or when I blow my regulars, but I like that. I like sex and the work I do. And I'm not going to be ashamed of it, eith—”

“She died this morning.”

The silence returns.

“Gabi,” Nigel clarifies. “She started doing porno, not long after we got here. Agent got her into it, to pay him for representing her. Porn turned her into a fucking junkie. Then I turned into a fucking junkie, and next thing—” He sounds choked, like he's crying again, and the annoyance in his gut dissolves back to concern, like it had been at the door.

Lee sits down on the couch next to him, though not close enough to touch. “You shared needles with her?”

Nigel nods tightly, rubbing his fingers under his eyes. “Fucking stupid, but yeah, I did. Felt like the only connection we still had. The only way I could get inside her.”

Lee swallows. He's known people with AIDS, people who've died, but not intimately. There's not much to say besides, “I'm sorry.”

“I've missed her for a few years now. She fucking left when I quit—I went and chased her the fuck down. Gabi was  _ mine, _ goddammit, until she was her dealer’s.” Nigel sighs heavily; he looks so much older than he is, elbows on his thighs, head in his hands, candle pushing against his temple. “I guess, really, she was heroin’s. Whichever. It doesn't fucking matter anymore.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Charlie called—her dealer, the fucking little shit. Funeral’s in a couple days. Can't afford much. Had to unstuff my mattress for it.”

Lee tugs on Nigel’s arm, pulling him down to lie across his lap. He cards his fingers through Nigel’s hair. “You bought off him.”

“He offered,” says Nigel, eyes closed. “I jumped on it. Fucking weak.” Nigel’s pushing into Lee's touch like he's desperate for another addiction. “Please, Lee; please just light my fucking candle.”

“You know I can't do that. I can't let you do that to yourself.” Lee pulls on the corner of Nigel’s eye with his thumb until he's forced to open it and look up at him. “I don't care how much you loved her. She's not worth going down that road again.” He knows his eyeliner has to be streaking down his face now. “You don't need a light if you don't go into the dark.”

Nigel sobs. Lee lets him.

 

* * *

 

The dawn is peeking around the buildings in front of Lee's windows when their beepers go off. He doesn't even remember falling asleep, only stroking Nigel’s hair and cheek, a lulling rhythm for both of them. Lee fell sideways at some point in the night, the side of his face pressed against the arm of the couch, but Nigel never moved—his face is tantalizingly close to Lee's cock. Considering the night before, Lee immediately disentangles himself upon noticing. Better to jerk off in the shower he desperately needed to take hours ago.

Meds first. Nigel blinks at him blearily when Lee pops a pill in his mouth—one of his own, because he knows Nigel’s good for it, that he'll replace it. But his lips are soft when they brush Lee's fingers, and the barely there caress of his tongue is more than enough to completely wake up Lee's libido.

It was a testament to his immense attraction to Nigel—men really shouldn't be allowed to have that much chest hair—that Lee was still hard in his freezing cold shower. Considering that Nigel was a high heel’s throw away, Lee’s thought process was inappropriate as fuck: what he wants to do to Nigel when he wakes up; what he wants Nigel to do to  _ him. _ Best to file that away for another time, another day. Sex probably isn’t the kind of comfort Nigel needs right now. Just a good fantasy for a morning shower, which is over, so Lee should stop turning around to creepily stare at Nigel, still sleeping, peaceful and relaxed for the first time ever.

_ Christ on a cracker. _ Lee would go ahead and fuck into his fist if he thought he could do it without calling Nigel’s name.

He takes a deep, unsteady breath, instead, then pulls on his warmest sweatpants and his favorite too-big sweater. Even though Lee hasn't had guests for months, he remembers the basics of being a decent host, so he rummages around the kitchen for the least shitty tea he has. The water heater’s broken, but maybe the electricity has magically returned to the building.

Lee turns the knob for the front eye on the stove. It begins to heat.

“Aha!” Lee can't help himself, does a twirl or two right there in the kitchen, spotting like he used to, back when he did ballet instead of tricks and teases. “It's a Christmas miracle!”

The couch groans along with Nigel as he slowly wakes up. “‘S’it Chri’mas?”

“It absolutely is!” Lee hums as he puts the kettle on—not a carol, but some song he stripped to last night, the one he loves but can never remember the name of. “Come forth,” he says, striking his best serious and dramatic pose, “and know me better, man!”

Nigel stretches and yawns. “That a proposition?”

“That's  _ A Christmas Carol.” _

Nigel chuckles. “Smart-ass.”

Lee winks at him before turning back to the cabinet, looking for another teacup. “I'm frequently told that it is  _ fantastic.” _

The kettle is whistling by the time Nigel makes it over to stand beside Lee, leaning against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. Lee wonders when the last time Nigel had a glass of water was—doesn't everyone need to take a piss in the morning, even the broken-hearted?

“I'm sorry,” says Nigel, almost too low to hear, even as close as they are to each other.

“What the tits for, Nigel?”

He sputters a little laugh again; Lee could get used to hearing that. “For being a fucking mess at your door, and then on your couch, and…”

Lee fills his one unbroken glass with water, listening to the complaints of the tap. “My lap?”

“Yeah,” says Nigel, rubbing the back of his neck. “That.”

“I promise, it's okay,” and Lee holds the glass out to Nigel expectantly. “Come on, don't leave me hanging.”

But Nigel’s somewhere else. “I should have just done a few lines and been done with it. Shouldn't take from my own fucking product, but—”

“So  _ that's _ your illegal trade.”

“—it was a nostalgia sort of thing, I guess,” continues Nigel. “A tribute? Hristos, I sound like a fucking idiot.”

Lee pries one of Nigel’s fists open to give him the glass of water. “No, you don't. Grief makes us do funny things.”

“Shooting up isn't exactly humorous.”

“Not with that kind of attitude, it isn't.” Lee spies a plastic purple crazy straw in the dish drainer. He snatches it up and pops it in the glass. “Green tea and Cup Noodles for breakfast?”

Nigel makes a face; it's more adorable than it has any right to be. “You've got to be fucking kidding, gorgeous.”

_ Gorgeous. _ Lee licks his lips before he does something stupid, like attack Nigel’s mouth with his own. “Haven't been down to the bodega recently.”

“Do you like  _ actual _ food?”

“I do if you're buying.”

Which is how Lee ends up in his Santa hat from the act last night (it's the warmest one he has), and a matching feather boa (it's scarf-esque), and an old leather jacket of Nigel’s that was forced on Lee. It was hard to let Nigel go to his apartment by himself; Lee half expected him not to come back, leaving Lee to come looking for him, then walking in on him strung out. But Nigel returned, showered but not shaven, before Lee could find his gloves.

His eyes were a bit shifty, and Nigel couldn't hold Lee's gaze for long. Lee suspected that he had grabbed not just the AZT, but also the dope while he was downstairs.

Security blanket. Lee gets it.

Nigel had linked arms with Lee when they left the building, and then Lee had even less compunction to comment on what else Nigel was likely holding.

He's walked past it dozens of times, but Lee's never actually been  _ in _ the Life Cafe. Had Lee known they sold vegetarian chili for fifty whole cents a bowl, that wouldn't have been the case. It makes him uneasy; what else has he missed in his pursuit of a peaceful, unattached life?

“You don't get out much, do you?”

Lee tries to smile. “That obvious?”

“Painfully.”

“I just wanted to live simply,” Lee tells him, fiddling with the end of candy cane-striped scarf, wrapping it around his finger. “Maybe I took it too far.”

Nigel shrugs before leaning back in his seat again. “I did the opposite back in Bucharest.”

“I wasn't  _ always _ such a hermit. Only since I tested positive.” Lee pokes him with his soup spoon. “And you aren't much better, Mr. Vow of Silence.”

“Talking now, aren't I?”

“Yeah.” Nigel has the most vulnerable smile etched onto his face. Lee wants to reach across the table, stroke Nigel’s arm or stretch further to squeeze his fingers, but he can't make his hand move.

It's nothing more than small talk after that, Nigel drinking cup after cup of coffee, watching Lee match him in bowls of soup. Lee can't decide if the tension is simply residual emotion from last night, or if Nigel’s noticed Lee's poorly concealed attraction to him, or if Nigel is feeling this sudden, strong connection, too.

Nigel picks up the three dollar check; Lee drops a twenty dollar tip.

“Are you fucking  _ kidding _ me?”

Lee tries not to giggle and fails miserably. “Hey, you're the one who offered to buy breakfast.” He puts his Santa hat on Nigel’s head, letting the puff dangle into his face, then walks out into the cold. “Told you I'm a good dancer.”

“Maybe I should come watch you sometime.” It's not flirtatious; Nigel’s voice is level and serious. His eyes have a strange sort of Canal Street knock-off shine to them when Lee turns around to look at him, paused in the doorway, so much like last night. It makes Lee's chest hurt.

“I don't know. I think you might punch somebody when I got on the pole.”

Nigel’s eyes go so wide that Lee's afraid he’ll have to catch them.

Lee holds his hand out. “C’mon,” he says. Nigel hesitates, blinking several times, then takes Lee's hand and lets himself be pulled outside.

Nigel’s quiet as they make their way back, quiet enough that Lee wonders if he’s done something wrong. Did he misread Nigel’s signals and incorrectly assume that Nigel was flirting with him? Was the pole comment too much? Was offering his hand more insistent than kind? Has this whole outing only served to make Nigel remember similar trips and times with Gabi?

Whatever may happen, his belly is currently warm and full. Lee tries not to remember the last time that happened, because he knows he won’t be able to, and he doesn't want to have the, “I should probably shift my monetary priorities,” conversation with himself right now. Thinking too hard isn’t conducive to holding onto calories, either, so Lee decides to leave the potential between he and Nigel up to kismet.

Lee reigns in the urge to skip, but he does swing his arms. Best case scenario, Nigel will swing along with him; at worst, Lee will come off like an excited child. There’s hardly anything wrong with that, as far as Lee's concerned.

“You always like this?” asks Nigel. The voice that breaks the silence is steady, and dispels the fears Lee wasn’t letting himself have.

Lee twists enough so he can walk backwards to look at Nigel without dropping hands. “Like what? Happy?” Nigel grunts a reply. “Life’s too short to be miserable, even if there’s plenty of misery to be had.”

“What’s it like?”

“What’s  _ what _ like?” Lee frowns, then skids to a stop, anchored by Nigel’s hand in his.

“Being happy.” Nigel’s face is quizzically blank. Lee can’t decide if it’s a question as to how happiness feels, specifically, to Lee, or if Nigel means generally, at large, to the world.

He reaches for Nigel; beneath Lee’s hand, Nigel’s stubbled face is mottled with warmth, a quarrel between latent body heat and winter weather. Nigel takes a breath that’s too harsh to be called a gasp— _ God, _ but how Lee wants to put Nigel back together again, to touch him enough for Nigel to never forget how another person feels and tastes and lives again.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever really considered it at length,” admits Lee, pulling his other hand free from Nigel’s own. “I’m lucky like that, I guess. There’s nothing holding me down, and no one holding me back. All I have to do is live. It’s hard to be sad when every day is new. Every minute hurtling toward us is the future, and each of us travelers within it.”

He holds Nigel’s face between both palms, a makeshift muffler. Nigel’s eyes aren’t pirate gold anymore, but amber in the reflection of the sun on the sidewalk’s snow. Lee thinks he could stay warm forever in that glow.

“Right now,” Lee continues, “there’s only us. Only this. No other moment has ever felt or will ever feel like this one.” Nigel’s hands are like a vise on Lee’s face, tight enough for the cold to freeze and fuse them together. “You’re sick, and I’m sick, but so is the whole goddamn  _ world, _ Nigel. Life keeps moving, anyway. We leave people behind. People will leave  _ us _ behind. Shit happens, and nothing makes it less shitty. But that minute has passed now—”

“We fucking flushed it,” says Nigel around a sputtering laugh.

“We did,” agrees Lee. The corners of his mouth hurt, and his teeth are chilling. “And here we are, in an ever-present present with hundreds of thousands of possible minutes lying at our feet.”

“And that’s why you’re happy?”

Lee pushes Nigel’s face back and forth, moves his head from side to side, watching him smile. “No. Right now, I’m happy because I’m here with you.”

Nigel doesn’t seem to have anything to say about that, nothing audible, anyway. But he does take Lee’s hand again, both of them gripping back tightly.

They’re practically running back home now, and Lee isn’t sure why, but he’s having a wonderful time, regardless. Lee slides a few times, even with his best running shoes on. Nigel catches him every time in strong, sure arms, and Lee is more delighted than he’s been in years.

He tugs Nigel past his apartment—“I'll turn you loose to go home later,” Lee tells him. “I swear on the stripper’s Bible.”

“Is there a Bible for strippers?”

“Depends on what costume I'm wearing, honey.”

—and leaves him at the door to his own, ducking in long enough to grab the bottle of Trockenbeerenauslese he'd intended to enjoy alone today, and the only two pristine glasses he owns, long-stemmed and sparkling. Lee holds both wine glasses in one hand, upside-down, crossed stems clenched between his fingers, hugging the bottle to his chest with the same arm.

“Back!” says Lee, grinning widely—has he stopped?—and pulling the door shut behind him. “Did you miss me?”

Nigel shakes his head, face inscrutable. “Every fucking second, darling.” Lee's face feels warm for the first time since he came home last night. For a heartbeat, he thinks Nigel’s going to lean down to kiss him.

It doesn't matter how much Lee wants it, though. “I don't want to be a rebound,” he whispers.

Nigel gulps; his eyebrows gather, and the lines around his eyes grow deeper. “Gabi left me months ago.”

“But she—”

“Just because she died yesterday doesn't mean I haven't wanted you, Lee.” Nigel takes the bottle out of Lee's arms, setting it down further up the staircase. “I hadn't wanted to be a fucking idiot trainwreck on your couch before telling you, but…” A lone tear escapes the corner of Nigel’s eye, clinging to the top of his cheekbone. “I'd been too much of a scared little shit to ask you out before, and I knew...”

Lee finishes for Nigel when he trails off, turning his head away.“You knew I'd stop you from doing something stupid last night.”

Nigel nods. Lee twists so he can kiss away the tear on Nigel’s face, and feels this absolute bear of a man crumpling into him again. It’s difficult to remain upright beneath Nigel’s weight; Lee ends up half-crushed against his door, trying to awkwardly hold Nigel while still keeping the glasses relatively clean.

“I hate to complain,” begins Lee, “but this isn’t exactly the way I’d imagined you holding me down and covering me up for the first time. Primarily because it’s difficult to breathe.”

It makes Nigel chuckle and ease back enough for Lee’s chest to properly rise and fall. “Sorry, gorgeous.”

“So am I.” Lee smiles against him, lips still pressed to Nigel’s cheek. “Give it a few days, and I’ll...invite you inside.”

Nigel chokes on his own laughter. “That was fucking awful, Lee.”

“I'm sure you'll get me back for it sometime next week.”

“What happened to living for today?”

Lee kisses at the joint of Nigel’s jaw. “Who says I’m not?” He lets Nigel maneuver his head, finger beneath Lee’s chin. “What about you?” he asks. “What time are you living in?”

Nigel touches his forehead against Lee’s; his eyes blur together, a chakra opened. “Traveling back and forth.”

“Then I’ll wait for you to join me in the present.”

“After the funeral?” It’s impossible to miss the eagerness in Nigel’s voice.

“Bury the past?”

His eyes are slightly sad, but Lee would expect no less. “Something like that, yeah.”

Lee pushes Nigel back playfully—he can't stand seeing sorrow. Nigel deserves happiness. “Well,” he says, “let’s go give a toast to the future. Or maybe just today, or time in general, or anything suitable we can think of.” He ducks under Nigel’s arm and heads up the stairs. “Fuck it,” Lee adds. “Let’s just go get drunk.”

Jogging up the stairs, Lee leads Nigel up to the roof, not giving him time to question the change in locale.

He does question the wine he's carrying up, however. “The fuck is a—a—what the fuck this is?”

“Trockenbeerenauslese?”

“Gesundheit.”

“See?” Lee looks cheekily over his shoulder. “You  _ do _ speak German!”

“German wine.” Nigel somehow manages deadpan and incredulous simultaneously. “Why not just go for the hard shit if you're gonna go German?”

“I'm a wine connoisseur with limited cash.” Lee then concedes, “And also a fan of both riesling and tragic irony.”

Nigel stumbles on the crack in the fifth landing. “What's so ironic about Trucken-beer-the-something-fuck wine?”

“Just call it TBA.”

“To be announced?”

Lee lets it go. Nobody's perfect. “The grape they use for this is picked specifically, plucked from the vine, and subjected to a thorough treatment of noble rot.”

Nigel says nothing for another set of stairs, and then, “Jesus fucking fuck, are you metaphoring yourself?”

“I'm special and noble and slowly disintegrating.” Lee giggles. “I'm almost too sweet to stand. It might as well be my twin.”

“I refuse to pass judgment until I've tasted you.”

Lee shivers, and it has nothing to do with opening the access door to the roof.

 

* * *

 

They get drunk. Very drunk. Lee hasn't been this drunk since some French asshole named Jean purchased his services for a weekend. Nigel is far, far better company, though, and not only because he's as intoxicated as Lee is. Lee doesn't even complain when they start taking turns drinking directly from the bottle.

Very, very drunk.

“The place looks so much  _ cleaner _ when it snows,” Lee says, gesticulating out toward the skyline. Not for long—Nigel’s more interesting by far. Besides, Lee's head is heavy, and his arms are  _ right there, _ resting on his bent knees, all of his six feet crowded onto the seat of his folding chair.

“Just wait for the dogs and the trucks and the hobos wake up,” and Nigel snickers when Lee shoves him in the shoulder. He takes a swig of the riesling and makes a face. “Stuff’s cloying as fuck. How do you drink this?”

“Usually from a glass.” The eye roll is absolutely worth it. “I like the way it makes food taste afterward, when the wine’s only a memory on your tongue. Dark chocolate, for instance. It's more bitter. A duality, of sorts, because it isn't  _ really _ more bitter. It's only the exposure to the riesling affecting your taste buds. Past and present and future, all rolled into one…” Lee finds he's used up all his eloquence. “Thing.”

“A moment in time.” Nigel takes another drink before passing it back to Lee. He swishes the wine around in his mouth like Listerine; Lee takes a much longer drink than he intended to. “A photograph,” Nigel continues, “or maybe a film.”

“Life does have an unreal quality to it, at times.”

They pass the bottle back and forth until it's empty.

“Smells like it's gonna snow more.”

“You think?” asks Lee. He scoots his chair closer so there's only a palm's length between them.

“On occasion, yeah.” Nigel turns his head, smiling, then shocked, like he hadn't expected Lee to be so near, like they hadn't been even closer than this on the stairs, or on Lee's couch. Nigel smells sweet like the wine, but there's a faint trace of the coffee from their meal, and tobacco, and now Lee wants a cigarette.

He's always bold, but alcohol makes Lee bolder. In lieu of asking for one, Lee simply invites his own hand into Nigel’s caramel-colored coat. Nigel’s chest is still beneath Lee's fingers as he searches for the pack of cigarettes that  _ have _ to be there.

“You want something, gorgeous?”

“I want lots of things,” says Lee, blinking innocently at Nigel, and holy  _ shit, _ they are incredibly close right now, “but currently, I could go for a smoke.”

Nigel’s eyes narrow. Lee can't wait for the day he can read Nigel completely. “If you want to grope me for it, you should at least look in the right place.”

“Which is?”

“I always keep one or two behind my ear, so...under this ridiculous fucking hat, then.”

Lee gazes at Nigel, eyes half-closed, and he feels so fucking impulsive that his bones itch beneath his skin. 

Fuck the repercussions.

Giving up, giving in, Lee pushes himself up, stretching his arms over his head, raising on tiptoe. He lowers again, and starts to unbutton his borrowed coat.

“Lee?”

The coat shrugs off his shoulders easily, sliding down his arms to land on the tar beach. Now it's only Lee and his thermal shirt and his open flannel. Hardly sexy, but Lee's had worse to work with.

“Lee?” Nigel asks again, albeit more quietly.

He pivots, clutching one tail of his flannel in each hand. Lee isn't drunk enough for the air to not bite unpleasantly and make his teeth chatter, which means he's sober enough to slink toward Nigel and not weave. His hips are hidden by his jeans, but that doesn't deter Lee, either.

This is the  _ best _ part, his  _ favorite _ part of stripping: the prelude. The  _ tease. _ It doesn't matter how much Lee is or isn't wearing right now. Skin isn't what the customer's watching. The movement is the focus now, the way Lee plays with his clothes and follows the planes of his body with his hands. Nigel doesn't know where to look, or if he even  _ should _ look, if it’s okay to stare at Lee, tying his shirt tails together around his chest, instead of diverting his eyes. After half a minute of darting his eyes around, Nigel can’t ignore the urge any more, can’t help but rake his eyes up and down Lee’s body.

Every time; every lap dance; every man. Confused, aroused, and all, all Lee’s.

Nigel’s breath stutters when Lee sinks to his knees and pushes Nigel’s together. Lee plants one hand on either side of Nigel’s legs, gripping the seat of the chair.

“I thought we were waiting.” Up close like this, Nigel’s eyes are more black than red-gold.

Lee runs the tip of his tongue over his top lip, both willing and prepared to pull out every trick he knows. “What's a little lap dance between friends?”

“I've got no fucking clue,” says Nigel, “but I'm ready to find out.”

“You know the rules?”

“No touching?”

“Uh-uh.” Lee pushes himself up, arms straight, feet flexed, up on his toes, kneeling in the air. He’s never done this in sneakers before; first time for everything, he supposes. Leaning in so there are mere inches between their mouths, Lee tells him, “You can’t touch me, but I can touch you.”

Nigel smirks; he’s all fangs. “You’re trying to fucking kill me.”

“Now where would be the fun in that?”

Lee rolls his hips, grinding against Nigel’s knees. They’re both biting their lips, eyes locked, Lee trying desperately not to close the distance and start kissing him. Instead, he tears himself away, breathing along Nigel’s jaw as he extends his neck and tilts his head. It’s just as hard not to put his mouth on Nigel’s pulse, to suck and nibble and lick, but Lee can at least put his mouth closer to temptation this way. With the new angle, Lee’s groin is over Nigel’s knees, not touching there, either. He keeps undulating, and can practically feel Nigel locking his muscles, trying not to touch back.

It goes on, almost too long for Lee to stand—this may have been a terrible idea, but he can’t bring himself to stop. There isn’t any music, not even in Lee’s head. This is a dance of heartbeats, unbearably intimate, maybe even worse than the sex they’re avoiding.

Nigel swears when Lee holds himself up long enough to thread a leg under his left arm and over Nigel’s right thigh. “How the fuck are you this flexible?” he asks, a harsh whisper.

“Lots and lots of yoga.” Lee has practiced controlling his cock, too; it’s awkward to have an erection. His customer deserves his full concentration. But he’s having a difficult time compartmentalizing his own arousal now, not when he can feel the bulge in Nigel’s jeans against the inside of his own leg. Lee breathes deeply, like he does when he’s meditating, left hand on Nigel’s shoulder, body leaning to the right—“Spread your legs,” he tells Nigel. “We don’t want to fall, now do we?”—and circles his hips over just that thigh, barely brushing.

“I’m going to have a heart attack,” says Nigel when Lee moves his other hand to Nigel’s left shoulder, straddling him now, sitting on his lap.

“Nah,” Lee replies, shifting his hands to the back of the chair. “If you have a heart attack, you won’t get the rest of you dance.”

“I will do my level best to hang the fuck onto the mortal coil,” and Lee throws his head back and laughs, just in time for a snowflake to land on his eyelashes.

He stands up, still gripping the back of the chair, metal cold in his palms. “When did it start snowing?”

“It’s snowing?”

“It's snowing, Nigel.” He opens his mouth to reply, but Lee starts moving again, leaving Nigel’s mouth hanging slack. Lee’s hips figure eight above Nigel’s lap, a denial of the worst kind. Lucky for Nigel, though, he has a soft belly; even unintended, and even if Nigel can't feel it through the coat, Lee's groin is hitting it on every downward dip. “Maybe we should've moved this inside.”

“And miss the chance to get a free lap dance on the roof from a gorgeous boy?”

Lee feels his ears heat up. “Hardly a boy.”

“Younger than me.” Nigel groans as Lee finally lowers himself back down to his lap. “Much, much prettier than me.”

“You certainly know how to sweet talk a girl.”

Nigel looks as serious as he can, given the situation. “Want I should call you that?” Lee shakes his head slowly, tilted back, seductive. “Baby? Darling?”

“Oh, I like that.” Lee lifts himself up and down, thrusting forward slightly, and Nigel has to feel  _ that _ on his stomach through the coat. Lee wonders if it's as hairy as the rest of Nigel, then swiftly stops thinking about it.

Nigel seems to have trouble swallowing. “Which one?”

“Both.” Just back and forth now, rocking, a vertical oval along Nigel’s thighs.

“Baby darling, it is.”

Lee holds his finger up against Nigel’s lips. “Don't let my regulars know. Just for us.”

“Want to keep you,” says Nigel, lip twitching between a snarl and a smile. “Want to kiss you. Touch you.”

The gentle graze of Nigel’s moving lips against Lee's skin is maddening. He hardly recognizes his voice when he murmurs, “Then touch.”

Nigel doesn't have to be told twice; Lee barely gets to tell him  _ once. _ His hands are on Lee's waist immediately, pulling him down, squeezing them together, thrusting his denim-covered cock against Lee’s. It takes significant effort to pull Nigel’s hands down to hold his thighs, but Lee’s strong, and his fingers are persuasive, pushing up under Nigel’s sleeves; trailing down the veins in his arms; dragging his touch down where Lee wants it.

This is  _ Lee’s _ dance, and he’s going to keep control of it, dammit.

Lee raises his arms for balance, then starts rolling his hips forward again. Once he’s found his center again, Lee drops them, lets his head hang back, and lets himself flow free and move like water.

“You really love this, don’t you?” Nigel is running his hands all over Lee’s thighs, sometimes squeezing, sometimes almost tickling with his fingertips. “You chose the job, not the other fucking way around.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Lee hums his song—he really needs to figure out what it’s called, except then, it might lose its magic. “I live each day like it’s the last one I’ll have.”

Nigel’s hands find the sides of Lee’s face, and the dance stops abruptly. “Fucking hell, Lee. Let me fucking kiss you.”

Lee can’t think of a single reason to stop him.

It’s like their mouths were made for each other. First kisses aren’t supposed to be perfect like this; they’re supposed to be messy; dirty; sloppy. But Nigel kisses Lee like he’s the last person he ever wants to kiss, stroking Lee’s face like Lee is already treasured.

God, why does Lee even care about the possibility of being a rebound? Why be afraid of a future that might not even be there?

The kiss breaks; Lee feels like they’ve been locked together like that for hours, Nigel’s palms warm on his cheeks. Lee’s arms found their way around Nigel’s neck all on their own.

“Nigel—”

“Yeah, baby,” Nigel says through Lee’s shocked gasping. “Yeah, baby darling. I know. Me too. Fuck,” and he kisses Lee again, over and over, each as good as the one before, fire in the middle of ice.

Lee’s hands shake as he reaches into Nigel’s coat. This distraction is as good as the one before. Nigel bites at Lee’s bottom lip, sucking on it as Lee moans, still caught in Nigel’s hands, muscles limp except for the ones that matter.

He finds what he’s looking for.

The bag full of powder is easy to pull out. Even easier to toss over his shoulder and off the side of the building to fall into the snow on the sidewalk below.

Nigel laughs against his mouth. “Tricky little minx, aren’t you?”

“Today,” begins Lee, his proclamation loud and clear through the snow, “I give you the gift of life.”

“And a pretentious fuck, to boot.” Nigel moves his hands in favor of wrapping his arms around Lee. “Good thing I don’t mind.”

“A very good thing.” Lee can’t stop shivering now that he isn’t moving. “Inside?” he asks. “My place? Cuddles?”

“Still want to wait?”

Lee nods quickly—not for emphasis, but because he’s really fucking cold. “I have more wine and a very small portion of grass to make it up to you with.”

Nigel keeps laughing, tucking his face into Lee’s neck. “Merry Christmas to me.”

Taking his hat off of Nigel is the only way to nuzzle the top of Nigel’s head, so Lee does it, donning the hat himself. “Happy birthday, Jesus,” he says.

The moment passes, relegated to a memory suspended, a scene in a snowglobe, and time moves on.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to watch an embarrassing number of lap dance videos to write the end of the fic. No, really. I get legitimately embarrassed. _Magic Mike_ is terrifying.
> 
> Also I wound up getting "La Vie Boheme" stuck in my head for a solid week, to the point that I accidentally started singing it out loud. Making breakfast. In front of my preschooler. He has echolalia, and one of my favorite lyrics includes the word "sodomy". Let's just say that I burned the pancakes and leave it at that.
> 
> BUT ANYWAY.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging [the accompanying mood board for this fic](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/170159593254/today-4-u-by-shiphitsthefan-leenigel-rent-au)! Feel free to come flail at me on [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com), regardless. I like flailing.
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


End file.
